After the Fall
by miss-bagel
Summary: Moriarty/Moran oneshot, takes place after the Reichenbach Fall


"I've been expecting you," came a voice from behind the high-backed chair.

Sebastian Moran stopped in the doorway, his heavy coat only half off.

"Knock it off, Jim, I've had a hard day," he muttered, shaking off the other coat sleeve and kicking off his boots.

"Oh, the little soldier had a tough day," the voice cooed sarcastically.

Sebastian hung up the coat, frowning slightly. The suicide had gone off without a hitch, so why did he have this sick feeling in the pit of his stomach?

"You kind of left me up there. Could've let me know I could disengage?"

The voice was silent.

"I said, you could've let me know," he repeated, his voice tinged with anger now.

The fire flickered, the only light source in the dusty old room. Sebastian peeled off his leather gloves, eyeing his prized kill, a Siberian tiger, mounted high on the wall.

"Hey, you listening?" Sebastian hissed, his ears burning a little. "You always let me know, what was the prob-"

"The problem?" the voice suddenly continued. "The final problem. Yes, yes, ooh, that tricky little thing. A pain in my side."

Sebastian was walking forward now. No, no, this wasn't right, this was clearly not right. He had felt it back at the hospital, and he felt it here, now.

This was wrong.

He froze as he finally noticed what he should have noticed.

That damp patch on the back of the chair.

"Or is it a pain in my head?" the voice finished, giggling softly, girlishly.

That damp, dark, red patch.

Sebastian lunged forward, swinging around to face the chair.

The empty chair.

It was happening again. His mind, pulling together the fragments, the clues, telling him what he already knew. Like that time in Cambodia, when his dead partner's face had appeared in the dark. Like that time in Russia, when his brother's screams had shaken him awake. Tiny pricks of instinct burning the knowledge into his consciousness, his own personal death knell, reminding him that all were gone. All were gone.

And now it was happening here.

Sebastian sank to his knees, his eyes wide, his breath labored as his throat constricted from the restrained sobs. His mind was screaming, panicking. Now what? Now what?

His blond hair fell in front of his face, obscuring the empty, empty chair. His chair.

As his shoulders, so used to the military posture, drooped, a tiny crack broke the silence.

In one instant, he had pulled a pistol from the inside of his vest and was pointing it at a small, dark figure in the doorway to the dining room.

"Who are you?" Sebastian snarled, blinking back the tears furiously as he struggled to see the intruder clearly.

"Oh, come onnnnnnnnn," the figure whined. "Don't be boring. I thought you at least wouldn't have fallen for my little ruse."

Sebastian slowly placed the pistol on the chair and stood up. "Jim?" he said slowly.

"Wow, all this…_emotion_ from only a few minutes of thinking that I'm dead? Really, Seb, I would've thought _you_ at least wouldn't have underestimated me," Jim sighed.

Sebastian charged forward, his body propelled by a terrible concoction of fury, embarrassment, and relief. He pinioned Jim to the wall with his forearm, his face inches from Jim's.

"Jim, how could you—if you had—I thought—"

Jim smiled up at Sebastian, his eyes still cold, calculating. "Really, Seb, you're being awfully pedestrian. Blood on the _back_ of a chair? And you at least should've recognized the distortion of my voice as it came out of the speak—"

Sebastian's fingers were suddenly latching themselves around Jim's throat, the taller man's eyes blazing. "Are you…laughing at me?" he hissed into Jim's face.

Jim paused, his eyes just a little bit brighter. His hand slowly snaked its way into Sebastian's vest and past his shirt, and suddenly the cold, bony hand was lightly touching Sebastian's stomach, his side, his back. "Oh, never," he murmured.

Sebastian had, without even realizing it, loosened his grip on Jim's slender throat. He opened his mouth, and then closed it. "That was a cruel joke," he finally muttered, pulling away from Jim.

Sebastian stood in the middle of the living room, turned away from Jim's constantly measuring gaze. "Is this what it's like?" Jim said suddenly.

Sebastian looked up at the tiger mount.

"Having someone care about you?" Jim continued. "Funny thing, people. They'll tear each other's throats out, rip each other to shreds, for money, for power, for sex. And yet they still manage to care about each other. Really, what's the point?"

Sebastian shoved his hands into his pockets. "To be honest, I never really figured that out," he said quietly.

He could hear Jim walking towards him, his footsteps soft and almost silent. Almost, but not quite.

"Then why do you always end up back here?" came the sibilant whisper in his ear.

Sebastian's eyes never moved from the tiger. He shivered. Jim's cold hands had made their way inside his shirt again, and the small man's hands were tracing the lines of his muscles curiously. "Because maybe," Sebastian murmured. "Maybe I need to have something in my life…"

Jim was kissing his neck.

"…that isn't…"

Jim was kissing his ear.

"…dead."


End file.
